


Waiting To Breathe

by SuperficialPeasant



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Character Death, Closeted Alec Lightwood, Epistolary, Grieving Magnus Bane, Love before First Meetings, M/M, Malec, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22918384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperficialPeasant/pseuds/SuperficialPeasant
Summary: In which Alec finds old love letters from a Magnus Bane he’s never met, but who has known and loved him for centuries.
Relationships: Magnus Bane & Alec Lightwood, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Comments: 301
Kudos: 610





	1. One

For someone so often found lonely, the Institute’s library on a sunny afternoon is Alec’s favorite place to be.

The sun would spend the day teasing all corners of the building, brief glimpses of light on wood and stone until it reached the library’s stained glass depiction of Raziel, his glorious wings spread wide and protective over an Idris landscape. There, the sun would laze across the open expanse of the room with a warmth powerful enough to penetrate his bones. Alec would stretch out on the floor and bask in it, as it moved around the room caressing book spines and polished surfaces; as it turned dust specks to fireflies and cast the lines of Raziel’s wings onto his skin. He’d lie there and read whatever caught his eye, and after particularly trying days, he’d stuff a cushion beneath his head and nap there for as long as the sun lasted, or until someone chose to bother him.

But today is gloomy beyond the windows, a world blanketed in rain, gray with misery. Though it doesn’t deter him. Escaping into the library’s offered peace and quiet is a welcome pause in the turbulent trajectory of his day thus far, even if it’s dark and chilly enough to require a reading lamp and blanket.

It’s been a long week spent ruthlessly pursuing the unending list of jobs passed off by his parents. He’s never been allowed to run things, merely asked to chase up those responsible for getting things done. He takes the role seriously, because his ability to liaise the correct information between his parents and those left in charge makes all the difference in whether or not the job gets done right, whether his family get to keep their claim on the Institute or lose it altogether. But more often than not, the stresses of the job make it hard not to feel like a prized whipping boy. The solitary escape of the library has seen his face too often lately, if only to help him cope.

He plucks yesterday’s book from its place in the stacks, kicks his boots off and folds his long limbs into the big lounger by the window, tugging the throw blanket down across his knees until his feet are tucked in its edge. He reads, and the words on the page drown out the heavy rain for a while, until the beating against the glass transfixes him so completely that he simply snuggles in to watch. The sky unleashes its wild, angry tears, and while it smoothes the sharp edges of his frustrations, it only reiterates his usual loneliness.

He drifts in his contemplation, taking in the rivelets of rainwater as they stream their gritty shadows across the room. His eyes land on the spine of a particular book on the shelves, one that catches what little light the dreary day outside provides just so that its gold-foiled lettering glows bright. He glances away, but a peculiar nagging sensation pesters him throughout the next hour, draws his attention back to that book over and over again. Eventually, he draws himself up to satisfy his curiosity.

Closer inspection tells him it’s a Mundane novel. He’s known a few Shadowhunters who like to read them, but their presence so boldly displayed among grand volumes authored by the Clave’s most prominent historical figures isn’t a regular occurrence. He reads the foiled inscription. _Persuasion_ , by Jane Austen. Definitely not a book he knows of.

He pulls it from the bookshelf, feeling the golden lettering and worn hardcover with his hands. It’s just a book, nothing out of the ordinary. But when he goes to put it back, he sees what looks like a stack of letters stashed behind its place. He has to pull a few more books out to reach through, but then he has the old yellowed envelopes in his hands, red wax seals remarkably still intact, bundled together with a length of navy ribbon. He immediately feels their importance - far too important for the likes of him - and he has half a mind to put them back when he catches a name scribbled on the front.

_Alexander_

He stands frozen for several moments, trying to think of the other Alexanders he knows. He remembers meeting a Shadowhunter boy named Alex when he was young, and a Werewolf that had been arrested locally many years ago, going by the same name. Alexander is a common name among the Mundanes, though he can’t imagine why Mundane letters would be sitting in the Institute. Or how.

They can’t be for him, because he knows no one who would think to write him letters, let alone hide them in a bookshelf in the chance he’ll happen upon them. But his regular library presence is widely known by the other residents of the Institute, and the nagging feeling is back with undeniable vengeance. A quick flick through the rest of them merely intensifies his curiosity. There’s almost two dozen here, all addressed simply to an Alexander.

_Alexander_

_Alexander_

_Alexander_

He puts the Mundane novel back and returns to his seat, letters in hand. Their seals are elegantly designed, too elegant to break. So he carefully takes his small boot knife to one of them, sliding between wax and paper, thumb feeling out the seal's debossed initials: _MB._ With success, he unfolds the old, brittle paper with tentative care, wakened by further stirrings of anticipation. As if a new adventure lies waiting for him in the unknown.

His eyes brush the date. _7 May, 1807_. Letters over 200 years old, which eases the guilt of being nosy where he knows he shouldn’t be. Then he reads the first line of black, elegant scrawl at the top left of the page with growing intrigue. And as he makes sense of their curves and loops, his heart pulses, light and fluttery in his chest.

_My dearest Alexander_

He quickly bears another glance about the room, at the door, checking for watchful eyes. He should probably return it to its hiding place, but he sees the length of his own name staring back at him and his curiosity is almost stubborn, rebellious. Enough that he reads the first paragraph, hoping it might be enough to quell his need for more information.

_Where to start. I long to ask if you are well, but it would be a fruitless attempt at denying my own dismal reality - that you are no longer with me._

There's a pain here, an acute pang of loneliness that immediately draws him in. Mindlessly, like a moth to a flame. A whispering of a kindred spirit. It's little more than a sentence, but loneliness is his own old, acquainted friend, and it feels good to have someone to share it with. Even if that someone is long gone. 

He reads on with a vague hunger, eager to form a greater picture of the person behind the words.

_And I dare not remind myself that you are gone, because it is still so fresh that I feel you might walk back through the door at any moment. Even now, I envision finishing this letter and finding you watching me from the parlor with that serene smile of yours upon your lips. Or having the very spirit leap from me when you sneak to hold me in your arms the way you often do. The way I so love. I am holding onto this feeling with all I have left, because it is the only thing that keeps your loss at bay. And I’d once made you a promise that I would bear it._

_Do you remember? Ever the elusive one you are, as long as I have known you. Always giving me answers to questions I hadn't known to understand. You asked me to keep you alive in my thoughts and in my heart for as long as I could, but it were an easy vow to make. I didn’t know then what I am struggling so deeply to accept now._

_You are gone from me, Alexander. And I am so terribly lost on how to live without you._

A _love_ letter, he realizes. A love letter from someone who once grieved the loss of someone very dear. A lover, perhaps even a husband. It feels a little intrusive to read, a violation of what was once a very intimate connection between two people he’ll never meet. Out of respect, he wants to put it back and pretend he never found it. He _plans_ to.

But then he reads the name of the writer at the bottom of the page. A shaky line of blurred, black ink.

_Magnus_

He marvels. A love letter to a man, _from_ a man. 

The very prospect is such an alien and terrifying one, and again he wants to stuff the letters back where he discovered them. Though he finds himself too deeply tempted to read on, as if he’s hovering over the edge of a dark, bottomless well, wondering what lies beneath. How did Mundane letters end up in the Institute? Or were they, impossibly, _Shadowhunters?_

He checks the door again for signs of anyone who could have placed them here and waited. It’s preposterous to assume someone in the Institute is purposefully trying to bait him, but the possibility of someone knowing his own secrets when he’s spent his life hiding them gives him a moment of pause. Because in another universe - one where he’s selfish and brave and lucky enough - he could be the Alexander this Magnus so lovingly writes to.

But holding them in his hands doesn’t feel like a trap, or a hook to catch him on. He runs his fingers over the delicate lines of ink, admiring the beautiful penmanship. Time and great care was used here. It’d be a waste to set them back in their place and leave them for someone else. Someone who might not appreciate their significance as he would.

So, he hunkers back down to continue.

_I haven’t slept. Your scent remains on our bed sheets and I cannot bring myself to lie in them, lest these small traces of you are worn away. And if I do not sleep, I can fool myself. I worry that waking up will make it real, and I am not ready to wake up alone. I am not ready to wake up in a world where I cannot be with you._

_You used to speak lengths of a future I could not see, one where time itself would bend for us. I used to think you naively optimistic, but it is one of the things I love most about you. Your ability to know with every fiber of your being that all will work itself out - simply because you will it so. From that night we met at the Chiswick, you were a force of nature. I suppose that is how you won my heart. You claimed it yours and made it such a lovely home that I never once felt the need to ask for its return. I ask that you keep it with you now, so that I may fool myself a little longer._

_I love you, Alexander. I love you in words that do not yet exist. If time is so merciful as to bend for us, I beg that it bring you back to me._

_Your loyal beloved,  
_ _Magnus_

Alec reads it five times over, his hand crawling absently to rest over his heart. It _aches,_ he finds, ever faintly. For this stranger’s pain. For the joy of a love he once had, now taken from him. For reasons he can’t even explain.

The longing of this unknown man is almost tangible, burrowing a little hole into his own chest to exist in. Such private, personal thoughts, shared by what is so clearly a broken heart. He feels intensely protective of them - of this Magnus and his beloved Alexander - and makes a silent promise to them both. These letters may not have ended up with their intended, but Alec hopes to give them the dignity of a sympathetic receiver to keep them safe.

He flips the letter over, looks for hints of information he can trace. But there’s nothing, just the same MB symbol stamped at the top in black ink, and a name: Magnus. He tucks the letter carefully back inside its envelope, and moves the bundle and the Mundane novel accompanying them to the privacy of his bedroom. He sets Jane Austen among his own collection of books, then gently wraps the letters in one of his old worn t-shirts, sliding them onto the shelf at the back of his closet for safe keeping. His siblings have a tendency to barge into his room to borrow things, and seeing his own name on those letters may provoke questions he can't answer. His siblings are also detrimentally curious by nature, and he does not wish to see Magnus’ beautiful letters destroyed by prying fingers.

If he can protect these mystery men and the love they once shared, then he will.

  
  
  
  
  


But his curiosity is far too unsatisfied for just one letter.

After dinner, he retires once again to his room and brings the letters out, shuffling to get comfortable against the headboard of his bed. He hesitates only to reprimand his apparent lack of self control, but it’s soon forgotten when the next letter of the bunch is open between his hands.

_19th May, 1807_

_My beloved Alexander_

_I ventured outside of our townhouse today. I almost wish I hadn’t. To discover the world remains the same and does not share in my loss is a heartsickness I cannot put words to. My own little universe has been irreparably changed and there is no evidence, nor person with whom I can truly share it with. ‘Tis as if I dreamt you somehow. I see your clothing in the wardrobe, your shoes and coat in the foyer. The cup and saucer from your last hot tea still sits on the counter. I cannot bear to look at it, but I cannot bring myself to move it, nor wash it. It has become an ornament of our home. Proof that you were here. A vain hope that you might walk back in and tell me this is all nay but a nightmare._

_It has been little more than two weeks, and this heart of mine still clutches to denial. Catarina visits often to tend to affairs in my stead, as I still have not the energy. She means to lend me her shoulder to cry upon, but I am too afraid to start, for fear I may never stop. So I went for a walk at her asking, if only to send her home without her usual concerns, and I found myself in the gardens at Chiswick Manor where we shared our first kiss. Being reminded of that night was a gift I sorely needed today. Do you remember as I do?_

_You seemed to have come from nowhere, looking like you needed a good spit n’ polish. As if you’d walked through hell itself. ‘Tis no wonder those eyes of yours fell me as quickly as they did. You were such a lost soul, and that made us kindred. I remember your easy smile and your patience. I hadn’t been in the best of moods, but you indulged me selflessly like you had all of the time in the world to be with me. You were so strange and thrilling that you felt imaginary, plucked from my desires and made flesh, meant for me and me alone._

_The first kiss we shared that evening changed me in a way I had not realised at the time. Reminiscing upon it now, you felt like home. You felt like an answer to an old prayer finally finding its way to me. A perfect love I could hold and be held by. That is why I took you home with me. It certainly hadn’t been the proper thing to do, but I had not cared. Somehow I knew beyond all manner of doubt that you, Alexander, were meant for me. And I’d already waited so long for a love like yours that being coy felt like a waste of our precious time._

_And that night...oh, that night. You loved me in ways I had not known I needed to be loved. You loved me in ways I had not known I could ask for. Is it any wonder then that I never tired of you? You felt made for me, Alexander. In you, I found true peace. In you, I could see my own reflection, and he was happy and fulfilled. Thinking of it all now brings tears to my eyes. Not of sadness, but of gratitude. I am so grateful for you. That alone tells me you couldn’t have been a dream. This sorrow and this joy is all too real. You had to have been mine._

_I hope you are smiling that contagious smile of yours, wherever you may be. Such thoughts give me hope, especially in moments like these where I miss you so madly that I forget what it means to be me._

_I love you, Alexander, far greater than I did yesterday. Tomorrow, I shall love you more._

_Gratefully yours,  
_ _Magnus_

Alec scrubs a hand down his face in awe. He reads the letter in its entirety all over again, and then again, then revisits his favorite sentences until he can recite them word for word. This man and the depths of his heart. His beautiful poeticism. _Magnus_.

He rests his head back against the headboard and tries to imagine the kind of man Magnus is. A self confessed lost soul, he’d said. Someone who had been waiting a long time for the kind of love his Alexander provided him with. Alec can’t help but feel envious, because the kind of love he wants is the same kind Magnus writes of, and it is exactly the kind he can never have. If he’s fortunate enough, he’ll get to marry a woman he can call a friend. One who can match him in every other way that matters. One who won’t ask for what he can’t give. It’s the closest thing to a happy future a man in Alec’s position can aim for.

He finds himself suddenly bitter and heartsore, enough that he puts the letters away for the evening. It’s a strange feeling to be jealous of a dead man. Even stranger to be jealous of a man that found a love so perfect, he was destroyed by it.

  
  
  
  
  


Alec reads another letter each night, taking his time to savor each one. Drawing out their inevitable end torturously.

Magnus writes about anything and everything. He writes about good days, days where he remembered certain things and laughed until his stomach ached.

_Ragnor took me out to Rules for a late lunch today. I hadn’t been up to it, but he insisted and persisted until I had little choice. It made me think of that first night we dined there, merely a week after it had opened for business, and how that oyster slipped from its shell and went right down the front inner side of your shirt. The look of horror you wore! I lost it so badly just thinking of it that Ragnor had to drag me out by the collar. I haven’t laughed like that in so long, my love. My belly still aches with it even now. Thank you for the small joy you gave me today._

He also writes about the bad days, and those are harder to read. Not just for how troubling and sorrowful they are, but in the way Magnus’ emotions distort his penmanship. It’s one thing to read about one’s hopelessness. It’s another to see the blurred ink where real tears have fallen, and struggle with the wish to comfort him where he cannot.

_I caught your phantom scent today, and it threw me terribly. At first I believed you were back, that you were simply in the next room over. I believed it so desperately that I forgot the last several months entirely and ran to see you. That you were not there only crushed what is left of my heart’s broken pieces._

_It’s been months and it still feels so fresh. I am not living, merely existing. This grief feels like a life sentence and I miss you so badly that I don’t know what to do with myself. Would you really wish me to endure it, this pain of mine? Would you not wish instead that I be free of it?_

It is only the dates on the letters that bring him any sense of relief. Despite Magnus’ many ups and countless downs, he keeps writing.

The letters come further and further apart, spanning months, and eventually years. Magnus’ sadness lingers through each page, sometimes softer, sometimes much worse. Sometimes he’s angry - at himself, at Alexander, at whatever destiny brought them together in the first place. Sometimes he’s optimistic, where he writes of meeting new people, of developing attractions.

_Rose is a woman as lovely as she is fair. She is kind and patient with me where others have grown tired. She understands my loss, as she herself is a widower, having lost her husband six months past to heart disease. Misery must truly enjoy company, as I have found her to be a great comfort. I do believe she is farther along in her healing than I, because I see the way she observes me. Perhaps another chance at love sits there, waiting. I am not yet ready, but I am so lonely. Would you give me permission, Alexander? Would you let me try again, had I the heart for it?_

And with each new letter, Alec's fingertips kiss the lines of his own name, and a range of growing emotions overcome him. Excitement. Profound, bone-deep sorrow. A restless yearning he’s never felt before. But beyond that, a certainty that should be laughable. Because he’s holding centuries-old love letters in his hands, from a man he’s never met or known. And impossibly, they feel like they were meant for _him_.

  
  
  
  
  


He learns that Magnus and Alexander had been married, a feat not legally possible for two men in 1800s London. Yet, they had made it happen by way of a simple, personal ceremony. One night, with the moon and stars as their witness, they’d recited vows and bound their hands together with gold ribbon, then spent the night making love beneath the blossom trees in the garden Magnus had built on the roof of their townhouse. A perfect night of promises between two people perfectly in love. The idea has Alec swooning wistfully.

He learns that Alexander had suffered a secret Magnus did not know of, something he never confessed but Magnus could see. Whatever it was, it had only made Magnus love him more, and it only made Magnus take extra care to be what he needed. Despite his secrets, Magnus did not love Alexander any less, and Alexander never gave Magnus a reason to doubt his feelings. For all intents and purposes, the tragically brief life they shared together had been one of deep, mutual trust and passionate, loyal love. It comforts Alec to know they’d both been so true to each other. 

Then, after letters and letters of avoidance, Magnus finally talks about the day Alexander died.

_That morning had been like any other. We got dressed, had ourselves a cup of tea. You mentioned an errand that needed to be run down at the market. I had offered to run it in your stead, but you insisted on doing it on your way home from the Institute. It had been my birthday after all._

_You never made it home. I remember how dark the sky was getting. I could smell oncoming rain in the air and went to meet you, hoping we’d happen upon each other along the way. Had I only been there a moment sooner, you would still be here. I can feel the blood drain from my face all over again now, just remembering you lying there in the street alone. The aftermath of a cruel, random demon attack. The roses you had bought me were scattered beside you, and I was at once both moved and furious. I wish you hadn’t joined the Institute. I wish you’d just stayed with me in our home and been content with a comfortable life. Damn you, Alexander. Damn you and your Nephilim sense of duty! How awful it is to hate you for one of the many reasons I love you. Why could you not have stayed?_

That’s when he learns that Alexander was a _Shadowhunter_.

He takes that particular piece of information down into the Ops Center to check the Clave database, looking for an Alexander who died in London in the early months of 1807. A suspicious amount of nothing comes up. In fact, the closest thing he finds to a Shadowhunter named Alexander in 1807 London is the mention of Gabriel and Gideon Lightwood - his own ancestors, who had been residents of the London Institute nearly seventy years later.

But he makes the connection regardless. If Magnus had known Alexander was a Shadowhunter, there was a good chance he was part of the Shadow World too. So he also searches for Magnus’ name in the Clave database, just to be sure. 

And he finds him.

He’s immediately shocked, so excited and nervous he can barely breathe. Magnus B turns up a result for a Magnus Bane, a prominent Warlock with a lengthy database file. A _Downworlder_. He’s too stunned at the discovery that he simply sends a copy of the file to his phone and disappears to his room so that he can pull it apart in peace.

He reads it as he reads the letters, obsessive and lightheaded. Magnus’ known place of birth: _Dutch East Indies_. His specialties: _Healing and Botanics_. His age: _Approximately 400 years old_. Last known location: _Brooklyn, New York_. His last known occupation: _High---_

The High Warlock of Brooklyn. Magnus is alive. More than that, he’s directly under Alec’s nose.

He flicks through the file’s attachments and finally gets his first glimpse of the man. Photographic evidence that he’s real, flesh and bone, beyond his heartfelt letters.

Clearly a purveyor of fashion and high society, the photos showcase moments of Magnus throughout the last century. At parties, at bars, at nightclubs. A perpetual bachelor taking his fill of the night life. All of the wonderful, complex emotions Alec knows him for are hidden away to the untrained gaze. His camera-ready smiles don’t meet his eyes, and his eyes are hard, unfeeling. But all Alec sees is a man who has lost his most precious person and has spent the last 200 years desperately pretending it hasn’t left a hole in him.

He’s the single most beautiful thing Alec has ever seen.

He squeezes a hand over his own mouth and sobs, shaking. This beautiful man, this beautiful, broken man still lives. Still mourns even 200 years on.

He sobs for Alexander, the brave, mysterious Shadowhunter man who inspired such a devoted lover, taken far too early. He sobs for Magnus, the fascinating man he has come to love. Because Alec loves him, he realizes. He loves his intricacies and his vulnerabilities, his humor and his loyalty. Alec loves Magnus for how completely he loved Alexander, so completely that his heart had no choice but to lock itself away.

He also sobs for himself. For how dreadfully unlucky he will be to never experience the same.

  
  
  
  
  


He decides to return the letters to Magnus. There’s a part of him that feels it’s the right thing to do. There is another greater, more selfish part of him that simply wants to meet the man, to comfort him by returning to him what was lost.

But the last of the letters sits untouched, unopened. All but daring him to read it, to complete the journey Magnus began in May 1807. He doesn’t even bother trying to talk himself out of it.

He opens the final letter, which sends a small photograph fluttering to the bedspread beneath him. Too eager to hear Magnus’ words, he starts reading.

_12th September 1878_

_My treasured Alexander_

_A most special 115th birthday to you, my love._

_My connection to London has truly run its course. Camille returned to me after leaving months ago, but I no longer have the will to be her plaything. I am tired of the city and all the Nephilim here that seek my help. I am not sure how I got caught in the middle of their dramatics, but I have no desire to partake. I wish to be left alone, so I am relocating to Paris for a time. Then I shall move onto New York to begin another life, hopefully one where my past does not follow._

_I finally sold our townhouse. I have no attachment to the place we once called home, because you are away in the Bone City where I cannot visit. The last winter here was too harsh for our blossom trees to survive, and I had not the heart to resurrect them. It is impossible to keep my memories of you alive in a house that feels like an empty tomb._

_I went through your things to ensure it was all safe and sound. I wished to bring it with me - to bring you with me - but Ragnor suggested that perhaps it is time to put you in storage and move on. I have not spoken to him for a week out of sheer spite, though I know he only means well. Perhaps it is time to say my goodbyes and start afresh. Maybe it will lessen this weight I carry, if only a little._

_But then I remember the promise I made you and again I am lost. How long must I do this? Some days the memories of you are a great comfort. It is a unique gift to know how loved I have been, how worthy I am to have found you. Though there are other days where the thought of you brings me to my knees, and picking myself back up is no longer as easy as it once were. I fear I will not survive this awful limbo if something does not change. I have already tried to tip the scales once before, and I do not wish to disappoint you again. So if I cannot be nothing, then I want to be happy. Can I be happy, Alexander? Even if that means a happiness without you?_

_Remember what you used to say? ‘If you have nothing else, have faith’. I am trying, Alexander, but faith is hard. I do not wish to leave you behind, because I promised, and because I still love you as fiercely as I did the last morning we had together. Time has not yet stolen that from me. But I think of you and I feel as though I am waiting to breathe. Every moment since you left me, I have been waiting to breathe._

_You made me believe that our love would last forever, that we would have another chance. And you never once gave me a reason not to trust you. So I hope with all I have left that you were right._

_I love you in ways I will never love again. I love you with all the depths of my wistful heart. May time reveal a new chapter of our story yet._

_Faithfully yours,  
_ _Magnus_

Alec goes over it once more, falling in love again with Magnus’ poignant words, helpless again for his grief. He can’t imagine how cruel it must feel to mourn as a Warlock - as an immortal, where nature provides no end to the suffering. That Magnus remained so in love and so hopeful almost a hundred years on is staggering to him.

He reads it again, because it is the last one, and Alec has every intention of returning them to their author. Then he picks up the photograph and flips it over in his hand.

His heartbeat suddenly runs wild, pounding in his ears.

Because staring back at him is not just a photo of Magnus, seated in an elegant suit with a hand atop a black, shiny cane. No. It’s also a photo of his Shadowhunter lover, Alexander. A Shadowhunter who stands proudly behind him, one hand resting over Magnus’ shoulder where Magnus affectionately grips his fingers. They’re wearing wedding rings.

Alec is more than certain he’s never met Magnus Bane before, nor been to London, let alone lived a secret life 200 years ago. Yet, staring back at him is a face as intimately familiar as his own. The same towering stature, the same rune he wears on his own neck. It’s like staring into a mirror, except the face looking back at him is wearing the smile of a man deeply in love. 

Against all imaginable possibility, staring back at him is _himself_.

  
  



	2. Two

He spends the next week in a daze.

It doesn't matter what he does or how busy he gets, whether it's a hunt or paperwork or assisting others on diplomatic business. His mind constantly returns to Magnus and the photograph, relentless and automatic, as if he’s the owner of a pre-programmed brain. And when the days are done and he's alone again to contemplate, he pulls the photograph out and stares at it for as long as he can get away with. Mind turning in an endless loop.

The unnerving resemblance of Magnus' lover, Alexander, to the reflection Alec sees in the mirror everyday troubles him. The only difference he can see between the two are the vintage clothing and the extra lines Alexander wears around his smiling eyes. Logic and reason tells him this man is a stranger, an unknown ancestor or some one-in-a-million freak doppelganger. But the strange feeling in his chest speaks of a loss he can't put words to, a deep knotting of regret with no cause to explain it. And it tries to tell him unimaginable things. Things that are too far-fetched to comprehend.

He's mercifully spared obsessing about it when his parents visit from Idris, a Clave envoy on their tail. Lydia Branwell has a solid handshake and a friendly, appreciative gleam in her eyes. As a Branwell, she's part of a strong, loyal Shadowhunter bloodline that has aligned with his family on many occasions throughout history. It doesn't mean much when his mother first mentions it, though it begins to mean more the next few times it gets brought up. His parents seem to believe that Lydia is a fitting candidate for a daughter-in-law, one with enough prestige to give some much needed elevation to the Lightwood name. And Alec, who has spent a lifetime putting family above his own wants and needs, doesn't consider feeling trapped to be a valid reason against it. Not with his family's legacy supposedly hanging in the balance.

So he spends time with her, gets to know her. Blessedly, he finds not only do their values align, but she does not seek the heart he can't offer. Their marriage would be one of mutual understanding, politically beneficial for their families and their futures. There's a relief that comes with crossing it off his to-do list, and an ease that feels comforting. With Lydia, he finds a like-minded friend. He doesn't have to wonder who he might end up with, but gets to bypass the tedious journey of finding a wife entirely. His parents may have made the suggestion, but _he_ makes the decision to see it through. It's easier that way to convince himself he has a choice, at least.

But with one huge weight off his shoulders, another soon replaces it. The heaviness of inevitability.

That heaviness only increases with each passing day as wedding plans begin to knit together and a date is set, much quicker than he’d anticipated. There’s also an unexpected grief that comes with knowing his path is set, and it begins to feel suffocating to the point where sneaking away to the Institute library just to find the space to breathe is the only way to get from one moment to the next. It’s there that he finds himself in his usual chair, staring at the same bookshelf where he’d first discovered the letters. And his hands begin to itch with the need to have them in his grasp again. The feeling is so persistent that it drags him away to his bedroom before he can think better of it, just so he can be near them again. Just so he can feel close to _Magnus_ again.

He rereads the letters like they're his old friends, and he's even more transfixed by the man he has grown to know intimately. Torturously so. Because Magnus is no longer a name and heartbroken sentiments to bond with, but a blood and flesh man with a face Alec dreams about. It's so far beyond the intrigue of beautiful words carved into paper, of a mystery to be solved. It's knowing the sharp, masculine cut of Magnus' jaw, and imagining what it might look like when he talks, when he eats, when he's biting down in frustration. It’s knowing the elegance of Magnus’ hands, and wondering what they’d feel like clasping his own in reassurance, in affection, in the playfulness of sneaky, tickling fingers. It's knowing the soft curve of Magnus' smiling lips, and envisioning the glory of it in full bloom, how it might spread to those around him unabashedly, delightfully infectious.

It's knowing the depths of Magnus' soulful eyes, dancing with quiet, well-worn happiness, and imagining what they might feel like on him. He half wants to find out, but the part of him that selfishly wants to fulfill his curiosity is also terrified. Would Magnus look at him like he were a ghost? Would he be furious to see another man with his lover's face? Would it traumatize him? Devastate him? Alec wonders for the first time what it would truly mean to meet him, and he’s neither confident that he’d be treated like a welcome guest, or some awful, karmic joke.

He spends hours wallowing, talking himself in and back out of it. Reading the letters like they might provide an answer. He comes across a particular passage, one that stands out a little more than it used to, and he can’t help but imagine Magnus writing every painstaking word. Woefully listless in his long, enduring grief: _I love you as a man loves the setting sun - with no choice but to look helplessly from afar and hope that you’ll return to me._

And it's all the confirmation he needs.

He quietly leaves the Institute the next evening, just as the sun begins to hide behind the city’s skyline. With a tracking rune on his palm, he traipses across the city with determined, wild nervousness, wondering if the next bus, the next block, the next building is where his journey ends. When his feet finally stop, the sky is dark and he’s standing before a red brick apartment complex, all the way over in Brooklyn's east end. 

He has little time to brace himself before the anticipation coaxes him up the front steps. He knocks on the entrance doors until a security guard comes, then he slips inside, glamoured and undetected, leaving the guard to peer back and forth along the street in bored annoyance.

The elevator ride to the penthouse floor only doubles his nervousness, his pulse a frantic throbbing beneath his jaw. When he arrives, the letters draw him slowly down the hall until he comes to a standstill outside of a dark set of double doors. 

But as he goes to knock, his fist hovers in the air. He thinks of the Institute, of his responsibilities, of his parents and siblings and his impending marriage, anything his brain can dredge up to make him turn back. Because if he turns back now, Magnus will not know him, Alec will not meet him, and life will continue as usual. Predictable and uncomplicated. And if he knocks, he may cross a line he can't afford to.

Years of coping mechanisms kick in, and he steps away like a coward. He wants to place the letters at the door for Magnus to find, so that he may at least fulfill his oath to get them home. Though just as selfishly, he wants to tuck them back into his jacket so that he can keep a part of Magnus with him. So that when he's alone and suffocating, he might relive the fantasy of the man he might have met, had he been brave enough to knock.

But regardless of his will, the door suddenly opens before him in tendrils of blue, smokey magic. His sudden panic has him rooted to the spot, watching the polished wood slowly draw back. Revealed is a wide, stylish foyer and living room, draped in a mix of old and expensive modern decor. It smells of sage and sandalwood, of oak and leather, of burning candles and the musky sweetness of Warlock power. And _books_ , many, many books, which only begins to make Alec feel at home.

His senses make a curious reach forward, wanting to touch and smell and see further inside. But his pounding heart keeps him anxiously poised. 

Then he sees him for the first time.

Magnus wanders into view, scooping up a half drunk martini glass from the coffee table and swallowing the rest in a single gulp. He moves with a relaxed but lively swagger, clothes shimmering, jewellery on his neck, wrists and fingers glinting in the light. Fearing nothing and no one in the comfort of his own home. Chatting aloud like he'd thought someone else to be at his door. Someone welcome and expected. Someone clearly not Alec.

But when he doesn't receive a reply, Magnus glances over his shoulder. Alec can scarcely breathe as Magnus stares, squinting over like he doesn't quite recognize him. As if Alec is nothing but a tall shadow waiting in his doorway.

Something inside Alec takes over, drawing him closer. Something far more insistent and powerful than the tracking rune burnt into his palm. His manners tell him not to barge in, while his Shadowhunter training tells him to back away. But his heart reels forward with a vengeance, bringing him slowly into Magnus' home until he's pausing politely at the edge of the living room carpet.

The inquisitive look on Magnus' face slowly fades as he takes him in, replaced with a quiet, dawning realization.

Alec grips the letters in his hands a little tighter, and says the only thing that comes to mind; a brief whisper, gnarled with emotions he can't place.

“Hi."

Magnus visibly startles, as if he hadn't expected him to speak.

"I’m...my name is Alec Lightwood," he introduces himself as gently as he can, lifting the letters in gesture, "I, uh...believe these belong to you."

Magnus peers down at the letters and begins to pale, like he's only now learning Alec is a real person standing in his living room and not simply a figment of his imagination. He looks to Alec’s face once more with a hoarse, gasping breath, both wet and surprised in sound, and the line of his mouth twists with barely suppressed emotion, a sudden sheen of tears forming in his eyes.

The growing look of profound grief on Magnus' handsome face makes Alec’s heart wrench in his chest. He looks so terribly lost that Alec both immediately regrets the decision to come and fights the urge to comfort him, as is his natural instinct when seeing those he loves in pain. The pull between them is so strong that Alec almost sways where he stands, dizzy with the battling need to be closer, and yet not intrude.

Because the writer of the letters may love someone else, but the man standing across the room is gazing at Alec with eyes that love _him_. And though it makes him feel like an imposter, he’s also greedy enough to never want the moment to end. It’s a small taste of how it might feel to be loved in the one way he’s always wished for, and it renders Alec breathless, leaves him feeling unravelled and remade.

Beautiful doesn’t even begin to describe Magnus Bane.

He thinks again of the letters and how they spoke to him, moved him, revealed truths in him despite being intended for someone else. And he can't help the next words that pass his lips.

"You know me."

And Magnus gives an awful, trembling sigh, his mournful eyes unbearably hopeful.

"Yes," he whispers, "I do."

Moments pass as they both stare, drinking their fill of each other for very different reasons. Alec has so many questions that he doesn’t know where to start, but he’s mindful of Magnus’ emotions. He takes a step forward and offers the letters, hand lifted between them, though it’s several more moments before Magnus wrenches his eyes away from his face long enough to accept them. When he does, Alec is keenly aware of how close their fingers are to meeting. His hand almost tingles with the need to stretch across the envelopes and touch him.

“They had my name on them. I didn’t mean to pry. I only wanted to get them back to where they belong.”

Magnus appears lost for words, too enthralled by Alec's apparent likeness to his late husband. Remembering that, Alec finally reins himself in. He's not the man Magnus might believe he is, and it's unfair to give him false hope. He picks his next words cautiously.

“I don’t know why I look like him. I don’t know what any of this means. It just...felt important to bring them back to you.”

His words gradually appear to sober Magnus, enough that he pulls the letters from Alec’s hands and gives them a brief glance over. Alec can see the many questions churning behind his eyes. But he sees answers too, answers that seem to make sense to him after two hundred long years of being left behind to wonder. Alec is eager to know them, but they’re still strangers. And Magnus doesn’t owe him anything.

He continues talking, if only to fill the tense silence, “I’m not sure how they ended up at the Institute but---”

“You told me to put them there,” Magnus speaks almost to himself, leveling Alec with a look he can’t decipher, “You are Alexander Gideon Lightwood, are you not?”

Alec’s heart trips beneath his ribs. “I...How did you---?”

Magnus smiles faintly now, another wave of sorrow in his eyes. His gaze drifts into far away memories, and Alec struggles with what isn’t being said. He thinks Magnus is implying that Alexander didn’t just share his first name and looks, but apparently his family names, too. Ancestral names going back multiple generations. He doesn't know what to do with that.

“How is that even possible?”

Magnus gives a halfhearted chuckle, pained and incredulous, “I think I’m beginning to understand.”

“Would you care to enlighten me? Because I'm beginning to think this isn't just about _you_ anymore.”

When Magnus turns to him again, it's with a patience and calm that makes Alec want to apologize. He appears a little more certain of the world beneath his feet, at least, which is more than Alec can say for himself.

“Do you have time?” Magnus asks quietly, “Would you like to stay for a drink?”

Alec can’t seem to wrap his mouth around the right words, so he settles for a nod, which sends Magnus wandering away to his drink station. When he’s done pouring what looks like a couple of glasses of whiskey, he offers one to Alec and gestures him over to sit at the dining room table. Silence takes hold again once they’re settled, and Alec watches Magnus drink his entire glass down in one smooth gulp before he snaps his fingers and refills it with a whirl of blue magic.

He's clearly stressed, which makes Alec want to apologize again and politely cut their evening short. But then Magnus looks across the table at him, and the way his eyes grow soft and fond keeps Alec firmly in his seat. He’d expected the worst case scenario in meeting Magnus. Anger. An emotional outburst of some kind. He hadn’t expected acceptance. Hospitality. Something akin to affection.

“You look so young,” Magnus muses aloud, wistfully, “May I ask how old you are?”

Alec glances down at his untouched glass of whiskey, just to give himself a breather from the intensity of Magnus’ attention.

“I’ll be twenty four in September,” he answers, and Magnus nods as if he’s confirming something to himself.

"The twelfth, right?" Magnus asks, but it's clear he already knows. 

Alec's mind gets stuck again on _how_. He vaguely remembers the date of the final letter, the one where Magnus had wished Alexander a happy birthday. The date had been of brief interest at the time, though that had been quickly forgotten in the shock of seeing his own face in a two hundred year old photograph.

But now he’s facing the growing list of commonalities he and Alexander share, and he doesn't know how to argue them away. He's not sure what to believe anymore.

Magnus sips on his drink, graciously giving him the time to find his voice.

When Alec does, he asks with great apprehension, “Alexander...how old was he when…?”

“He was thirty five when we met,” Magnus smiles briefly, but it turns grave again soon enough, “Forty four when he…”

Once that sinks in, Alec is both relieved to see a discrepancy in the similarities between himself and Alexander, and heartbroken to learn how truly brief their time had been. He’d known Magnus and Alexander hadn’t had many years together, but he’s devastated to hear it confirmed. 

Not even ten years. They’d barely begun a life together.

“I’m so sorry.”

Magnus smiles again through his sadness. Beautiful and full of grace, even in his grief.

“You said he told you to put the letters in the Institute. If you don't mind telling me - why?”

Magnus pauses, mulling over his answer, "He said many things that I never understood. But that didn’t matter. He made me promise to do it, so I had to honor it.”

It doesn’t fulfill his curiosity in the slightest, and Alec senses that Magnus is censoring himself, though he has no real grounds to complain. Magnus does, however, continue at his own pace, reflecting on his time with Alexander affectionately.

“There were things he kept to himself,” Magnus softly shakes his head, lovingly exasperated, “But he was always so open and honest with me about the things that truly mattered, so I never pried further. I figured he would tell me eventually. I didn’t know that we’d run out of time. Ironic, because he was always talking about time. How we needed to seize the moment wherever we could. His spontaneity was one of my favourite things about him.”

Alec sees the pain in his eyes, how old and deep it is, worn down for having carried it too long. But he sees joy too, flickering like a fresh lit candle finding its light. It transforms him, and Alec wouldn't be able to look away even if he wanted to.

“He was very enigmatic, which was deeply attractive to me. The heart loves a good mystery,” Magnus continues, smiling warmly. Though again it wanes, “But I resented it when he was gone. He left me with so many questions. And he was beyond answering me.”

Alec sinks dejectedly into his seat, leaning back against his chair, "I've probably given you more questions. I'm sorry."

“Not at all,” Magnus glances up at him now from across the table, expression calm and clear. He shakes his head at him gently, eyes soft with gratitude, "You've given me answers, even to questions I didn’t think to ask. And I thank you for them."

Alec doesn’t know what else to do besides nod, lips curving in a helpless, hopeless half smile. He can’t take away the grief Magnus obviously feels in looking at him, but Magnus appears genuinely comforted by his presence, too. That’s better than he could have hoped for.

Magnus’ elbow finds the table, and he lowers his chin into his palm, looking at him like they’re old friends.

"Tell me about yourself, Alec."

His insides seize uncomfortably, unused to the kind of unwavering vested interest Magnus is displaying. He shrugs and hopes his next set of words don’t promptly send his new acquaintance to sleep, "There's not much to tell. I live at the Institute. I fight demons at night and forward emails during the day. I’m very boring."

Magnus simply smiles a wide, closed-lipped smile. One that plumps his cheekbones and crinkles the corners of his eyes. Just as infectious and stunning as Alec had imagined it would be.

"Not to me," Magnus murmurs, fond in a way that heats Alec's cheeks.

Instead of trying to put another wall between himself and the man Magnus used to know, Alec selfishly lets himself enjoy the company. He tells Magnus everything that comes to mind, answering his many curious prompts until he feels he’s talking too much. Though when he tries to backtrack in embarrassment, Magnus’ growing smile and encouragement only makes him share more. It's hard to feel awkward when Magnus, the most fascinating man he's ever met, seems equally as fascinated by him. A politeness, he supposes, but one he’s happy to indulge if it means he gets more time with him.

Their conversation flows naturally over the next few hours - into Magnus' long, eventful life, the things he's done, the places he's been in the last two centuries. Elaborate tales of his assistance in heists and royal family dramas, of rabbit hole missions and hilariously poor decisions, of a time where he'd been driven so mad by an Egyptian tour guide that he’d almost displaced the Sphinx with his magic. He gives such vibrant, animated retellings of his adventures that Alec finds himself smiling and laughing until his face aches. There’s a part of him that isn’t entirely certain Magnus is telling the truth, but he’d doubt their validity if Magnus weren't unloading all his stories like he's been saving them for a rainy day.

It’s in that simple observation that Alec begins to feel uneasy. Because Magnus is relaying the last two hundred years to him like they're catching up on lost time. And Alec, crestfallen, realizes he's not the one Magnus means to catch up with.

Magnus seems to realize it too, which ends their evening on a somber note.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes at the door, fingers anxiously twisting the rings on his hand, "It wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't. Make me uncomfortable, I mean," Alec replies, pulling on his jacket. It's not Magnus' fault he looks like his deceased husband. It's certainly not his fault that Alec is confused by his own wayward feelings, "A unique situation like this...I understand. I imagine it's been hard to find someone that might."

Magnus shrugs gently, flashing a self-deprecating smile, "A little."

It's such a casual, familiar expression that Alec reaches between them to pat Magnus' shoulder without thinking. His fingers instantly, greedily memorize the shape of clavicle meeting muscle, of how broad and strong Magnus feels, yet how easily he fits against the palm of his hand. How normal and natural it feels to touch him.

But then he sees the tortured look in Magnus' eyes and removes his hand like he's burned them both. He berates himself silently as Magnus goes back into his thoughts, processing Alec again as he has so often tonight. A myriad of emotions passes across his handsome features, all of them pulling at Alec's insides like small, sharp hooks.

"I'm sor---"

"Don't apologize," Magnus says, waving it off, "Unique situation, as you said."

Alec drops his hand to his side with a grim, apologetic smile, feeling awful.

" _Thank you_ ," Magnus tells him, with a sincerity that leaves Alec breathless, "You don't know what this has meant to me."

He warms to the words, pleased to know he made the right call. He nods readily in agreement, because despite the awkward breaks and his constant apologies, meeting Magnus has been nothing short of a dream. An exceptional reality of the man he’d imagined.

"Same here. I really didn't mean to read your letters, but...I was invested. It's been good meeting you, Magnus."

Magnus’ smile fades at the sound of his own name, and Alec doesn't know what it means or what he's thinking. Does he sound too much like Alexander, saying his name? Does Magnus recognize the hidden affection Alec speaks it with? Is he as reluctant to say goodbye as Alec is?

A strange, almost desperate gleam appears in Magnus' eyes, and his fingers fiddle again, this time over his chest, as if tracing one of the necklaces beneath his shirt.

"Would you want to do this again?" he asks, but the heart-wrenching hope on his face gives way to a wary, harsh frown, "It's as you said, I don't have anyone to talk to about him...And saying that out loud, I realize it's far too much to ask of you. Forget I said anything."

Alec had made a deal with himself to return the letters to Magnus, fulfill his curiosity of the man and move on with his life. To put the experience in a box for him to revisit at a safer time. He's to be a married man in a month, after all.

But that'd been before he knew what it was like to be with Magnus. To talk to him, listen to him, to be seen and enjoyed by him. Even if Alexander was all Magnus saw, it's done nothing to take away from the nervous, wobbly joy Alec feels just by being in his presence.

So he blurts, again without thinking. Unable to handle Magnus' sadness, "Friday. Seven?"

He's rewarded when Magnus' disappointment is replaced with a quiet, anticipatory excitement.

"What's your drink of choice?" Magnus asks, smile turning crooked, "It clearly wasn't whiskey."

Alec rubs sheepishly at the blush crawling up the back of his neck, "I don't really know. I'm not much of a drinker."

Magnus' expression grows warm and jesting, his voice a sensual, hypnotic glide that makes Alec feel hot all over, "Well then. We have our first mission."

He catches himself matching him, smile for smile, excitement for excitement, as if he's a magnet attuned to him. Standing in the hallway of Magnus Bane's apartment building with plans to see him again isn't what he should be doing and will only make things difficult. But it feels good in a way he hasn't felt before. Almost like a bird in flight, soaring freely above a precarious drop. Supposedly wrong, but overwhelmingly, unexplainably right.

"Goodnight, Magnus," he says, with feelings he would never dare to name.

"Goodnight, Alec," Magnus answers, a delighted twinkle in his eyes.

Tomorrow, he'll go back to being the responsible man his family need him to be. Next time, he'll say goodbye.

But just for tonight, Alec allows himself the rare pleasure of just being himself.

On Friday, Alec visits Magnus again with the intention of bringing closure to what they started. Magnus makes him a vodka martini that takes a lot of teeth gritting and involuntary shuddering to get through, but he's too polite to let Magnus fix him something else. They talk at large about their weeks, exchanging sympathy over the stresses of work, errands and difficult people. Safe topics that shouldn't forge any new bonds. 

But as the evening progresses, the wonder of Magnus' company softens his resolve. He selfishly covets each sigh, smile, laugh and wink, telling himself he's fine with them being the last he'll ever see, even as he hopes for another. They share and laugh and move to the couch after another round of drinks, and Alec feels every bit the absence of the dining table between them. The dangerous new proximity makes Magnus feel both like a solid, regular, welcome part of his life and the devil on his shoulder, luring him into temptation. Making him want things he shouldn't want. Things he can't have.

When the evening comes to an end, Alec doesn't even try to say goodbye. Instead, he leaves with Magnus' phone number and plans for a late lunch on Monday. _One more,_ he reasons with himself. _Just one more and I can move on._

But one more becomes another, and then another. They meet again and again for meals, for coffee, for drinks on Magnus' balcony. During one of Alec's many visits, the two of them stretch out in the living room in companionable silence, trading the occasional easy smile as they read books in the afternoon sun. It's one of the best days of Alec's life.

He simultaneously thrills and laments over every new tie that binds them together. They grow closer, beyond kinship, beyond friendship to some unnamed spectrum of love that transcends all Alec knows. Like they’ve spent lifetimes together and are simply picking up where they left off. Being with Magnus feels effortless and natural, yet unpredictable. Safe and sure, but utterly terrifying. A warm sleepiness tempered by the seductive adrenaline rush of a dagger’s edge.

Strangely, in all of their moments together, Magnus never mentions Alexander again.

They speak honestly, for hours at a time, sharing their deepest, darkest thoughts and their biggest joys, and Alec’s feelings deepen quietly against his will as their borrowed time runs out. He falls helplessly, bitterly as his wedding draws near, and when it’s not his parents or Lydia or this week’s choice in floral arrangements constantly telling him that he can’t have what he wants, it’s the adoring way Magnus looks at him that does it. Because even if he lived in a world where he _could_ have what he wants, Magnus is still hopelessly in love with a man that no longer exists. 

With the wedding three days away and his spare time rapidly filling up with pre-wedding errands, Alec decides to spend his last free evening with Magnus. Against his better judgment, it's a chance to finally say the goodbye he should have said weeks ago. When it would have hurt less.

The sadness of having to say it prompts him to knock back every drink Magnus sets in front of him, until he’s too buzzed and numb to remember his heart is breaking. Graciously, Magnus keeps the conversation light, sensing what he needs. Alec fills the silence with everything and anything he can think of, just to get the closeness and smell and warmth of Magnus out of his immediate focus. When that doesn’t work, he slides off the couch to sit on the floor, trying to put space between them.

“Can’t be close to you,” he mutters, rubbing tiredly at his mouth.

“Of course you can. We just have to work with those five Manhattans you've drunk tonight,” Magnus smiles. Frustratingly, he slides down to sit beside him, nudging him with an elbow, “See? All fixed.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then tell me. You know I’ll listen,” Magnus says, gently, “What’s worrying you?”

Alec looks down at his leg where Magnus’ hand lies, warming through the material of his pants, all elegant black nail polish and shiny silver rings. It’s polite enough, with Magnus’ palm resting just above his knee. But it’s the opposite of what Alec needs and not nearly enough of what he wants. He makes the mistake of turning his head, straining their proximity with the same knife’s edge tension he’s battled for weeks. He gets lost in Magnus’ scent, his heat, his beautiful eyes and soft, beckoning mouth. And the reasons not to fade away beneath his wild, desperate yearning.

He bunts forward, and then his lips meet Magnus’ for the first time, his nose stabbing awkwardly at his cheek. He can’t sense anything beyond the endless need for him, can barely gauge whether he’s doing it right or how it feels. And he doesn’t get the chance to find out because Magnus’ warm hands press gently at his shoulders until they come apart.

He searches Magnus’ face for something he doesn’t know how to identify, only to be met with the same old sorrow he’d seen in him when they’d first met. Grief and longing, for _Alexander_. Alec’s cheeks burn as he realizes the horror of what he’s done.

“God, I’m...I’m sorry---”

“It’s okay, there’s no need to---”

He scoots back until he has room to get his legs under him, and then attempts to make a beeline for the apartment door, hissing a curse when he bangs his knee against the coffee table.

Magnus’ fingers wrap around his arm, “Alec, it’s okay---”

“ _No_ ,” he mumbles, pushing his hands off him, “it's really not.”

“I've waited _two hundred years_ to see you again," Magnus calls, urgent and hurt, through the space Alec rapidly tries to put between them, "And now you're here. Trust me when I say _it's okay_. You're not alone here."

Alec freezes at the door, heart beating frantically beneath his ribs, in his ears. Shocked, betrayed tears suddenly sting his eyes.

Magnus thinks he's Alexander.

Once the soul-crushing reality sinks in, he turns, trying not to wail his heartbreak across the room like the hopeless boy he knows he is, " _I'm not him_ , Magnus. I will never be him."

He fails, an involuntary sob erupting deep from his chest. Because saying it out loud only reminds him that he's been playing a losing game. Another great disappointment to add to his lifelong collection. He sobs for how badly he wishes he'd been born into a different life, one where his world encouraged him to live happily, no matter what that happiness looked like. He sobs for how badly he doesn't want to disappoint his family, and knowing that it will always be inevitable, whether he marries Lydia or not. 

He hits his fist on the door and gasps against the agony. Wishing that he were Alexander. Wishing that Magnus loved him. Knowing that even if by some strange miracle it were possible, he’d still never be able to do anything about it.

Magnus comes to him, and then those warm, elegant hands of his are on Alec's cheeks, his jaw and neck. Comforting and calming and offering mercy, even as they tremble against his skin.

"You're not _him_ , Alec," Magnus assures him, "He was _you_."

He stands there, stunned and confused while Magnus tells him an impossible story, one where Alexander appeared out of place in 1800s London, as if plucked from another century. Magnus lists all the small pieces of evidence he's accumulated over the years, as well as the ones he's come to reexamine in the last few weeks. He explains all the possibilities he's considered. Parallel universes. Dimensional rifts. All those half finished resurrection spells he attempted when his grief became too hard to endure. But his time with Alec has apparently brought him a clarity he didn't previously have, and he claims to understand now how the man he loves has returned.

Magnus believes a future Alec Lightwood - one Alec himself is yet to become - travelled to meet him in the past.

_Time travel._

Alec can’t let himself believe it, this farfetched dream of...he doesn't know what. Because it doesn’t matter what the truth is. His path has been set, and saying goodbye is all he has left.

“I’m getting married this weekend.”

The hopeful tentativeness of Magnus' face falters, “You’re...what?”

The shame hits Alec, hard. So hard he can barely bring himself to look him in the eye. But then he thinks of Alexander - a possible future version of _him_ \- and how he may have abandoned his responsibilities, his _family_ to live the life Alec so desperately wants now. And it grows in him a gnawing, unforgiving fury that keeps him focused on what he needs to do.

“It’s a political marriage, one that will help my family. They need me to do this," he explains, scathing anger bubbling within him, "So if you’re implying what I think you are, then you're telling me that Alexander left behind a family that needed him too. And I could never do that. _Ever_.”

Magnus shakes his head. Softly. Bereft.

“Then he knew something I didn't. He believed we would have the time, Alec. It wasn't until I met you that I knew what he truly meant," he implores anxiously, as if he can already feel the last of their time together slipping through his fingers. He takes Alec's hand and presses it to his own chest, "I don't have any other way to explain it...but I am yours. And I know with every fiber of my being that you are mine. And I think you feel the same.”

It's on the very tip of his tongue to tell him, to say he's never felt anything more intense, or true.

“Even if I felt that way, it doesn’t change anything," he murmurs, his heart finally shredding itself apart, "I’m getting married. I have to get married.”

“Don’t do this, Alexan---”

“I have to say goodbye.”

“ _Please_ ,” Magnus begs now, his usual calm, soothing voice now broken, “ _Please_ , don’t. _Don’t_.”

So Alec gives him what he wants. He doesn’t say goodbye. He realizes now he truly can’t, even if he wanted to. Instead he stumbles out of Magnus' apartment, closing the door behind him. He wipes the tears off his face, and he puts as much distance between them as fast as his numb legs and broken heart can manage.

  
  



	3. Three

The misery is intense.

He gets dragged away to oversee decorations and sign off on seating charts and try on his tuxedo for final alterations. But his every waking moment is, as always, consumed by Magnus. Magnus, who once got married with nothing but the night sky and the joy in his heart. Magnus, who spent years writing beautiful love letters to his dead husband because he made a promise. Magnus, who endured centuries on the thin hope of seeing the man he loves again.

Magnus, who believed so completely that Alec is the one he’s been waiting for, that he begged him not to do what he’s about to.

His sister and Parabatai aren’t happy either. They’ve always been on his side when push comes to shove, but they’ve both made it clear in recent days that seeing him married off for anything short of real happiness was never their wish for him. The small amount of relief he derives in knowing his nearest and dearest are just as reluctant gets quickly stamped out in the face of his parents. They’re _proud_ of his choice. Almost giddy, like they can’t see what he's sacrificing, or how much his decision is turning him inside out. Like he isn’t wandering around the Institute simply going through the motions.

When the time finally comes, two hundred people watch him stare at the altar like he’s meeting his doom. His lungs sit clogged in his throat, and trying to move his feet the last few steps is like wading through cooled tar. Physically impossible. 

Everything inside him says _don’t_. And it sounds a lot like Magnus, hurt and pleading and so panicked that Alec’s chest aches in response. It begins a powerful, immediate urge to run across the city to be with him that almost takes him down to his knees.

Ultimately, it’s the  _what if_ that gets him. It’s the possibility that Magnus spoke the truth, and a future version of him really did go back in time to start all of this for reasons unknown. Marrying Lydia isn’t going to quench his need for answers, only prevent him from searching for them. Even now, the thought of never knowing the truth is suffocating. 

But it’s not just the possibility that his future self abandoned everything he knew in favor of another life. It’s the possibility that Magnus might love him after all.  _Him_ , in all his versions. Both the brave Shadowhunter who crossed time to be with him, and the young man he is now, the one too terrified to let himself truly exist. The only thing he really knows for certain is that he'll never know the truth if he stands on that altar. 

His mind conjures a vision of Magnus bursting into the hall with his big, beautiful heart on offer, demanding he be seen and heard, ensuring Alec that the scary leap toward him will land him somewhere safe. But as he looks back at the empty aisle, he realizes it won’t be that simple.

_Don’t_ , Magnus’ voice repeats in his head. _Please don’t_.

The ache returns full force. The thought of leaving and disappointing everyone sends him into a flop sweat, but staying feels like a death. The worst kind of betrayal. To stay means to betray the man he’s always wanted to be. A man that wants to be happy and free. A man who is now helplessly, ardently in love with Magnus.

He looks into the worried eyes of his Parabatai, catches his parents’ confusion, then sees Lydia’s smile disappear as she stops at the end of the aisle. The guilt makes him want to push through. But it's not strong enough to make him forget the agony he’d seen on Magnus’ face when he’d abandoned him.

He hears it again. _Don’t do this. Please._ But it’s no longer Magnus telling him to turn back. It's his own inner voice, gentle and encouraging and full of love. One that believes he’s deserving of the life he wants. One that tells him he owes it to himself to at least try. It suggests everything he’s been searching for could be waiting for him beyond the Institute doors, if only he’d be brave enough to grab it. And it's too hard to ignore. 

He understands now why Alexander left everything behind.

Walking out of the wedding hall is the hardest thing Alec has ever done. But his legs and his heart guide him out of there like it’s the easiest.

  
  
  
  


Lydia carries her disappointment graciously, giving his hand a supportive squeeze before gathering the long train of her wedding dress and leaving his family to fight it out. His father gently tries to get down to the crux of the matter between long bouts of his mother's seething interrogation. He feels the sympathy wafting from his siblings as he gets inundated by question after question, until he simply can't take it anymore. Then, with a defiance that surprises even himself, he tells them all he's found love with a Downworlder man.

Once the words are out of his mouth, his world changes.

He stops caring about the shock on his parents' faces, or how mad they are at being embarrassed in front of their Clave colleagues. All that matters is the relief that comes with not having to hide anymore, and the frightening amount of hope he has for his future. Isabelle and Jace slide in to flank him, ready to protect him like he has always protected them. The twisted ball of anxiety in his chest evolves into something new. Something proud and stubborn and wonderful. He's out in the open now, disappointing people on his own terms. And it feels liberating.

When his mother storms out in a shiver of jewels and satin fabric, his father follows with little more than a tired sigh. Isabelle tenderly touches Alec's face, sniffling around happy tears, while Jace hugs him fiercely, telling him how proud he is.

“You and the High Warlock of Brooklyn,” Jace slugs him in the shoulder, “ _Dude_. How in the hell---” 

Alec flushes under the approval, “It’s a long story.”

"Go," Isabelle tells him with a big smile, "We'll take care of everything here. He needs to know.”

So he runs, fueled by the hope that he hasn't completely screwed things up.

  
  
  
  


When he arrives at Magnus’ apartment, he takes a moment to catch his breath and steel himself, nervousness compounding tenfold. It's almost the same feeling he'd had the first time he'd arrived here. Only this time, he's not holding himself back.

He gives the door a solid few knocks, and it tips open in a rolling cascade of blue magic. Magnus is out on the balcony when he wanders inside, a lean shape of fine-dressed black against the grey sky, the smell of incoming rain faint on the air as it softly billows the curtains. Magnus turns to come in, glass of whiskey in hand, and stops short when he sees him.

He watches Magnus take him in - his wedding tux with the loose bowtie hanging from his neck, the rumpled jacket clutched in his fist, his unkempt hair - and he sees a brief flash of pain cross his face before he hides it away. Alec feels loathsome for having caused it.

"It’s been a while since I was married,” Magnus tells him, gulping down the last of his drink as he moves to get himself a refill, “but I imagine wedding nights are still supposed to be between spouses." 

Alec feels a strange bravery under Magnus' scrutiny, so he shrugs, "Well, you believe I'm  _your_ husband, so technically---" 

Magnus puts his glass down a little harder than would be deemed polite, "Don't play games with me. I'm not in a jesting mood."

"Neither am I."

He tentatively closes the gap between them and waits patiently for Magnus to look him in the eyes. When he does, Alec gazes long and deep until he can see the man he fell in love with beneath the glowering, moody, whiskey-drinking Warlock standing before him. Magnus is so breathtaking up close that Alec almost loses his next set of words to awe.

"I didn't get married."

Magnus' relief is cautious and muted behind a wall of indifference. But Alec still sees it there, clear as day, "Why?"

The quiet need for reassurance in his voice gathers every protective instinct Alec has to the surface, and it tells him everything he needs to know. Because regardless of who he is or who he might be, whether it's in the past or the future, this moment is all that matters. This moment, where Magnus feels undeniably  _his_. 

When they'd first met, he'd asked how Magnus' love letters had been in the Institute for him to find. Magnus, who loved his husband so completely, had withstood years of his own grief just to fulfill that request. Simply because he'd been asked to.

It's the same answer he has now.

"Because you asked me not to," Alec tells him, with all simplicity. Because he's in love, and he understands now that there's nothing he wouldn't do for that. For him. For  _them_. 

Magnus' entire demeanor softens, his beautiful brown eyes no longer hiding his emotions.

"I've spent my whole life pretending I was someone else. But then I found your letters, and it felt like you were speaking to me. The _real_ me. And I couldn't ignore him anymore than I could ignore you," Alec admits, giving a small shake of his head, "I've been half in love with you ever since." 

Magnus blows a shaky breath between pursed lips, lowering his eyes to where his bare toes flex on the rug. Just so Alec can't see them welling up. 

This man; this wise, powerful man is hundreds of years old. Yet, confronted with Alec's naivety and inexperienced pining, he looks impossibly young. _Vulnerable_. Devastating in his beauty.

“I’m still not convinced I’m the guy you’re looking for...but if you believe it, who am I to tell you you’re wrong?” he says, watching Magnus visibly struggle to keep his emotions in check, “I just---I want to be with you. I want to be the me that I am when I’m with you.”

When Magnus finally looks up at him, the remainder of his stoic walls are crumbled to dust. There’s a barely noticeable wobble in his chin that he tries to stifle with a bite of his lip. But all his efforts can’t stop the tear that falls down his left cheek, making a sprint towards his jawline. Alec wants to reach out and wipe it away, but Magnus beats him to it, brushing it off with a light touch of a knuckle.

“I've waited two hundred years to see you again," Magnus confesses softly, inhaling with a shudder, "...and I'd wait two hundred more, if it meant we could be together."

Alec can’t be certain he’s the man Magnus wants. He’s not sure he’ll ever be. But his heart swells all the same, beating with wild enthusiasm. He gives into the urge to touch him then, reaching up to thumb away the next tear that falls. When he goes to pull away, Magnus takes his hand and gently leans his cheek into his open palm, closing his eyes. There's an old sadness that appears on his face, but a new calm too. Relief and contentment mixed together, like he's remembering how it once felt to be touched by him and confirming it still feels the same.

Alec watches with butterflies fluttering in his belly. He's always been affectionate with his family, but he's never touched someone like this. Someone who desires him as powerfully as he desires them. It's new and scary and exciting, and he's not sure whether he'll vomit or combust. He only knows he doesn't want it to end.

"So...what happens now?"

Magnus opens his eyes, but instead of deep brown they're now bright gold, shimmering like molten metal with black, elongated pupils. The eyes of a feline, set in the wistful face of the man he loves. Alec drops his jacket to the floor, and then he's holding that face between both hands, reverently and in awe, taking in the strange beauty of them. He soon realizes that Magnus is searching for a reaction, as if bearing his apparent Warlock mark might be something to be ashamed of. Alec can't do much else but stare in wonder as those eyes soften further - _pleasured_ \- with every caress his thumbs make on his cheeks. 

The need to be closer has him drifting forward into Magnus' space, and Magnus draws him in, his warm, gentle hands moving to hold Alec's jaw and neck. Their heads rest together, brows and noses nuzzling, and Alec tries to keep his breathing even because the new proximity makes his insides feel jumpy.

When Magnus finally presses his mouth up against his, the breath leaves him.

His heart beats almost too fast for his chest to contain, and he holds onto Magnus’ shirt, afraid to let him go. He’s never kissed anyone before Magnus and he still doesn’t know how, but he _wants_. He wants to be the man that kisses Magnus so perfectly that he writes letters about him. And he wants to convince him he’s a good choice, one that has been worth the centuries of waiting.

They kiss for moments, maybe even minutes, just the gentle capture and release of plush lips. And it's perfect. He's so caught up in the wonderful rush it builds inside of him that he falls into Magnus’ rhythm, floating in the sweeping pleasure of his mouth. Each kiss is slow and purposeful and savoring, travelling the shape of his lips like Magnus is reacquainting himself. When they come apart, Alec can’t breathe, can’t think, too lost in the glow of a wonder he’s never experienced. And as he opens his eyes, he sees Magnus is just as lost in the glow of something cherished - once lost, now found again.

Magnus smiles, a shaky, serene thing that has Alec smiling back. Then he’s pressing in again, forehead to forehead, long enough to take a deep, calming breath before he's hugging Alec, hard and relentless, clutching him like he fears he might disappear. Alec wraps his arms around him as far as they'll reach, enjoying how it feels to hold him and be held by him.

Magnus trembles uncontrollably, and Alec can feel his unspoken _I've missed you so much_ in the soft silence. He hugs Magnus tighter, because somewhere beneath the nerves and elation and years of inner conflict he's yet to overcome, he knows unequivocally that he's missed Magnus too. 

  
  
  
  
  


They spend the evening talking with each other, boldly honest and tentatively vulnerable. About everything that's transpired since Alec bolted from the apartment. About where they both are now and what they want next. Magnus is simply grateful to be with him, willing to take things slow. But Alec has too many questions and curiosities for slow, and Magnus makes him feel impulsive in a way that demands follow-through.

He tries to listen when Magnus talks, but now that he’s allowing himself, he gets distracted by the way his lips shape his words, and the way his voice tingles pleasantly on his ears. He sits next to him dutifully, but he goes foggy-brained with the feel of Magnus’ thigh pressed against his, with the longing to touch him. It makes being with Magnus both enticing and enduring.

He's so deep in all the excitement that it takes him a minute to realize that Magnus has stopped speaking altogether. Instead, he observes Alec with a strange glint in his eye.

It makes Alec flush. "What?"

Magnus gently shakes his head, gaze soft and unwavering.

"The way you look at me," he half whispers, his own cheeks growing pink under Alec's scrutiny. He palms his own face, like his hands might cool him down, "I feel very naked right now."

The word _naked_ threatens to send Alec down a particular rabbithole, so he's grateful when Magnus rises from the couch. 

“Sorry…”

“Don’t be,” Magnus smiles, and though he looks pleased as all hell, it appears wistful, “It’s been a very long time since you looked at me that way. I’d almost forgotten how it felt.”

Alec wants to comfort him, but he’s not sure how.

"Anyway, I've been wanting to show you something," Magnus continues, rubbing his hands absently on the thighs of his pants. Like it is not Magnus that makes Alec nervous with proximity but the other way around, "Now that I can. Now that you know…” He pauses with a puff of laughter, “You're not even hearing what I'm saying right now---"

"I'm trying," Alec blurts, and the knowing smile that breaks out across Magnus' face eases his own sense of apology.

"I figured seeing for yourself might be better," Magnus explains. 

Alec knows nothing of what he is explaining, and he doesn’t get the chance to ask when Magnus leaves the room and returns with an old wooden box. It’s big enough that Magnus’ fingertips don’t meet around it, but small enough to cradle against himself. Magnus gently places it down, hard wood tapping on the glass coffee table, and takes his place again on the couch beside him. Alec notices when Magnus’ thigh doesn’t return to rest alongside his, and he anxiously mourns the loss of its warmth.

He sees Magnus’ hand creep up against his own chest, fingers seemingly searching for something beneath his shirt the way he has often seen him do. Magnus takes a moment to stare at the box, getting swept away in his own thoughts with that same expression of yearning and old sadness. And Alec finally understands the importance of what is sitting in front of them.

Magnus turns to him, and he sees something in Alec’s eyes that visibly relaxes him, makes him smile again. Then he steels himself with a deep inhale of air before he’s pushing the box’s hinged lid up and back. 

Inside are a small collection of belongings, carefully and lovingly placed. At a glance, Alec sees a pair of boots sitting to the right of a meticulously folded pile of clothing, a couple of small books with yellowed pages tucked beneath an ornate trinket box. But his eyes catch the silver shine of a solitary ring, sitting atop the clothes. Square and chunky, masculine in design. _Familiar_.

Magnus lifts it delicately into his hand, stealing a secret, personal moment with it. Then he offers it to Alec.

The Lightwood family ring lands against his palm, cool to the touch. The same Lightwood family ring he _knows_ is currently in his mother’s possession.

He wants to ask how, because it still feels impossible. But it’s hard to deny the truth when it’s staring right back at him.

“You gave me that ring,” Magnus tells him, watching for his reaction, “when you asked me to marry you.”

He's lost on what to say, because it sounds like something he would do. It's something his own father did, and his grandfather before that, offering one of their most important family heirlooms to their betrothed. His mother had told him years ago, once he was old enough to understand, that he too would one day offer that ring to someone he loved. Someone he wished to spend his life with.

“These are the clothes you wore the night we first met,” Magnus continues, fingers dipping in to tug at the clothing labels tucked inside. _Polyester. Nylon. Elastane._ “Made of things that didn’t yet exist. Fashion and fabric I’d never seen before, on a man too perfect to be real.” He chuckles quietly to himself, “You know fashion and I go hand in hand. It was one of the hardest things to let slide about you.” 

"How did you _not_ ask?" Alec inquires, "All those years of not knowing the truth. I can't imagine letting that go."

Magnus' smile flickers, “I was too afraid. Our love was perfect as it were. I didn’t want to risk changing it or destroying it by being curious. I knew you loved me. And you never made me doubt that. Being a little curious didn't matter in the grand scheme of things.”

Alec looks at the clothing, running his fingers over the material. They're perfectly preserved, soft and worn like they'd been stored only yesterday. Probably the result of spellwork and thoughtfulness.

He recognizes the jacket as one of his own. In fact, he's almost certain he'd been wearing that very same jacket the day he'd come to return Magnus' letters.

"This is _real_...isn't it?" He asks, clutching at the evidence with a pounding, awed heart. 

Their love was real. _Everything_ was real. This moment, now, sitting across from the man he has come to love. A man that has indeed loved him for hundreds of years. 

_It’s all real._

He looks over at Magnus now, overwhelmed and overcome, "You're...really mine?"

Magnus glides across the few inches of space between their lips and kisses him patiently, a hand gently cradling the back of his head, in his hair. Alec presses back on the shape of his mouth with fervor, as if surprised he's being gifted another one and intends to make the most of it.

"Always have been," Magnus murmurs once they part, caressing the slope of Alec's jaw with delicate, exploring fingers. Looking so ruthlessly besotted with him that Alec physically _aches_ , "And always will be." 

He confesses in a whisper, wobbly with emotion. A rocking ship on an unsteady sea, "I don't know what to do with that."

Magnus leans back in, touching his forehead to Alec's with warm familiarity. And it brings him back to solid ground, where everything feels right again.

"Don't worry,” Magnus tells him with such certainty that Alec believes him, “You will."

  
  
  
  
  


In his lifetime of dreams, he'd never dreamt he'd be fortunate enough to have a love like theirs.

It has its fair share of downs. The initial adjustment is quick and harsh. His parents make themselves scarce around him. His colleagues in the Institute whisper and stare in his periphery. His sister and Parabatai try to take the brunt of the criticism on his behalf, but it does nothing to diminish the damage he’s caused by simply being himself. It pushes him to spend as much time as he can spare with Magnus, where he’s welcome and encouraged and not made to feel small.

Magnus whisks him off around the world whenever time allows, taking him to historical sites, fancy restaurants and all his favourite places, hoping to pass on his many joys for Alec to experience. He shows him around London to the many places they used to frequent 200 years earlier, much different now than they used to be. And it works for a time, because being with Magnus in even the most mundane situations is amazing. But eventually, the dread of returning home begins to wear on him. And Alec can’t bear the thought of living that way for the rest of his life.

So he stubbornly brings Magnus into his world, where people murmur and judge. He forces his parents to meet with him, and share space with him, and rebuild their tattered relationship with him, all with Magnus loyally at his side. It doesn’t fix things, but it does get easier, and when his mother finally engages in thin conversation with the man he loves across the Lightwood family dinner table, a heavy weight begins to lift from his shoulders. With patience and a great deal of effort, it disappears entirely.

He finds out just how woefully inexperienced he is with romance.

Every little smile Magnus gifts him makes his chest trip in pleasure. He melts into every hug with a feeling of such belonging that it almost hurts to pull away. Every little touch puts him on edge, like he's still half expecting the Clave to jump out and attack him every time Magnus slides a hand onto his lower back. But they also thrill him so that he looks for ways to prolong them, provoke them, invite them.

And saying goodnight is both the worst and best part of his days, where he gets to kiss Magnus the way he’s spent hours fantasizing about, until he’s hot and flushed and still thrumming with it as he falls into the exhausted, restless sleep of a man in the throes of love.

Being with Magnus also requires a level of awareness and selflessness he thought he'd been prepared for, but there are some days where simply being happy and in love are not enough, where moments between them need patience and perspective. Where natural affinity ends and effort begins.

But it's the hundreds of little things that make it all worth going through. The day to day, the mediocre and humble, that fill him with joy. It’s the simplicity of being desired, and desiring in return with nothing and no one stopping him from experiencing it. It’s putting his phone to his ear at any point in the day and knowing Magnus will be on the other end. It’s being welcomed back to the apartment with a gentle kiss and a happy smile after a long day at the Institute, and eating meals Magnus has thoughtfully acquired for him, and the quiet, blissful moment in each other’s arms right before they say goodnight, where everything feels perfect and unbreakable.

When they finally take things to the next level, Magnus is his patient guide, and Alec is his enraptured student, learning the vast plains of Magnus’ body with careful, eager hands.

Magnus teaches Alec how to make love to him, and in turn shows him the hidden joys of his own body. Every touch Magnus offers feels perfectly placed, precise and honed, everything he didn’t know he wanted or needed or enjoyed until he’s almost sobbing with the relief of it, soaring with the wings Magnus gives him. And when it becomes too much, and when it becomes just enough, and when it becomes nothing more than fading euphoria in his exhausted limbs, Magnus holds him with a tenderness that leaves him feeling complete in ways he hadn’t known he could feel.

Afterward, he searches out Magnus' mouth with a drowsy nuzzle, content to whisper against them when they're found, "I didn't know it could be like this."

Magnus' lips curve beneath his, "I said the same thing once upon a time."

And he falls into a grateful, sated sleep, burrowed in the happiness they create together.

  
  
  
  
  


Every new day he reaches another level of happiness. Even the days where the world falls apart and needs to be stitched back together again, because he knows where he belongs and where he’ll end up when the day is through. He falters occasionally on his own path, but the lessons fortify him into the kind of man he’s proud to be. Eventually, ironically, being himself helps him become a man his parents are proud of, too.

He still worries he’s not enough for Magnus, that he’s simply competing in the empty space another version of him left behind.

But his quiet moodiness never lasts long when Magnus smiles his warm, beautiful smile and tells him, in no uncertain terms, “You are the one who made him the man I loved.”

And it brings him back into the present, where nothing else matters.

  
  
  
  
  


He nervously approaches his mother one afternoon, with the intention of acquiring the Lightwood family ring. She is both surprised and wary at the request, because while he has grown comfortable throwing caution to the wind in his desire to pursue a future he wants, Maryse Lightwood has only ever known punishment for such things. But his seriousness makes her listen, and the perfect calm of his happiness bends her worries into resignations. 

When she places the ring against his palm a few days later, she does it with the perfect calm of her love for her son. And Alec hugs his mother so thoroughly that she quickly veers away toward her office afterward, waving him off with plans to catch up later while brushing something from her eyes.

When spring comes, he proposes to Magnus in the dim, evening candlelight of their apartment, surrounded by pots of young blossom trees dressed in fairy lights. The same kind Magnus had once stood beneath as he’d married Alexander centuries earlier. He tells Magnus through his own jittery, giddy anxiety how grateful he is, how in love he is, and how committed he is to sharing the rest of his life with him. And Magnus laughs tearfully between kisses, gasping _I love you, I love you, I love you_ until their matching passion for each other steals the remainder of their evening. 

With no one brave enough to stop them, they marry in a large, proud ceremony within the Institute, in front of Shadowhunters and Downworlders alike. And _this_ time, Alec drifts weightlessly down the aisle with a wide smile, and a full heart, and his head held high. 

Having changed his own world for the better, Alec dedicates his work life to improving the lives and dignities of those who need it. His relationship with Magnus brings an unexpected fame that allows him a platform with which to speak, and to the great surprise of many older Clave members, his thoughts on dismantling well established prejudices is met with murmurs of support from younger generations. It helps him carve out a fruitful career in politics, while his Warlock husband gains favourable recognition in higher roles. Together, they begin to create a world where Shadowhunters and Downworlders are allowed space to work and exist in harmony.

  
  
  
  


Not long after his 29th birthday, Alec becomes a father.

Through their efforts in establishing a working, official orphanage system within Downworld, he and Magnus meet many Shadow World children needing safe, stable homes. Each case rends the heartstrings and encourages them to do more to help, but that’s all it ever is. Until they meet Luna.

She’s merely one of many Warlock children found abandoned by Mundane parents too confused and frightened to know what to do with their strange offspring. Though Luna is one of the rare cases of runaways, barely six years old, brought in by a local Werewolf after being found sickly and sleeping in a cardboard box at Brooklyn’s Bridge Park.

It’s an act of negligent paperwork and sheer fate that they happen to be there when she arrives. Her malnutrition requires Warlock magic and a gentle meal to fix, and Magnus’ own traumatic experience as a street orphan throws him into action before anyone can figure out how to help. With great care, patience and Magnus’ special brand of compassion, she makes a speedy recovery, and her dull hair and eyes grow bright like a moon’s glow. It also forms a fragile bond between the two that has Alec and his wildest dreams falling helplessly into hope.

It’s after a late night of talking through the possibilities of fatherhood that the two of them gaze up at the clear moon above them, shining like a sign of things meant to be. And with their daughter’s birth name lost to trauma, they give her a home and a new name to belong to. _Luna Lightwood-Bane._

After several months of consistent routine, she feels comfortable and confident enough to start asking questions. It’s as Magnus tucks her into her bed one such evening that she glances curiously to where Alec leans in the doorway before she decides on a big one.

She turns her pearlescent eyes to Magnus, "How did you and daddy meet?"

"That's a very strange and wonderful story, my love," Magnus tells her with a wink, curling a wayward lock of matching platinum hair behind her little ear, "Perhaps too long of a story for tonight. But I will tell you that daddy found me at a time in my life when I was terribly lonely, and I needed something to remind me how to be happy. And that's exactly what he did." 

She listens as attentively as one so small can, snuggled up inside her purple unicorn sheets, "Just like you found me." 

Magnus throws him a look over his shoulder at the small, vulnerable confession, something sad and touched and lost. Alec picks up where Magnus can’t finish, closing the distance to kneel at her side and sweep loving fingers over her forehead.

“Yes, baby,” he smiles, stroking his thumb over one of her soft little eyebrows, “Just like we found you.”

  
  
  
  


Alec’s world begins to narrow as she grows.

He and Magnus both take small steps back from their professional duties to focus on being parents, and what used to be hard work driven by the desire to make the world better soon becomes hard work encouraged by love and hope and the daily joy of watching their daughter flourish. Long, tired dinner conversations regarding Clave legislation and Downworld disputes become vibrant exchanges about the intricacies of childhood life. He and Magnus find themselves staying up late debating the best ways to educate her and socialize her, and worrying about raising a little girl in a world built to be dangerous for them. 

Having Luna points out where the gaps in their combined knowledge exist. She teaches them to ask for help, to seek second opinions, and when to hand the reins over to the loving female influences in their lives. She also teaches them how to stop worrying about the little things, how better to appreciate the simple things, and how - and _when_ \- to pick their battles. 

They discover that no matter how hard they try, they can’t be everything she needs. But they’re content in the certainty that they are everything she wants.

Under their love and care, they watch her transform from a quiet little girl into a bright and bold young woman. There are days when they both almost pull their hair out at the way she tests their limits, and others where her sassiness takes them so wildly by surprise that they have no choice but to laugh and joke about which one of them is to blame for it. But all the same, Alec falls deeper under the wondrous spell of her, and takes the time to cherish the perfect life he’s built with the man he loves more and more with each passing day. 

  
  
  
  


Two weeks after Alec’s 37th birthday, a rift opens up in the sky above Alicante, bringing with it a hoard of Demons. 

An ambitious law Alec had championed ten years earlier - allowing Downworlders into Idris - becomes a law that gets Magnus killed.

And Alec finally gets what he once wanted long ago.

A love to be destroyed by.   
  
  
  



End file.
